


Jagged

by elizabethgee



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Almost Drowning, Blasphemy, Cheesy, Crusades, Diarmuid in Distress, Flowers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NO TALK ME I ANGY, Violence, a crab - Freeform, not really romance but if you squint it is, playing fast and loose with history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24052606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: I am super intrigued by the Mute's history, so I made some stuff up.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid & The Mute, Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I watched this film for the first time maybe a month ago and I haven't been able to get these characters out of my head.  
> I've only ever written argumentative essays...nothing creative... please be kind to me! I'm trying.
> 
> This was prompted by a post on tumblr by pilgrimagesource's Diarmute week prompts (#1, Faith & Doubt). I hope it's okay that I'm participating so late. I don't know the proper etiquette so I'm just putting that info out there.
> 
> (I don't own any of the characters, no copyright infringement is intended. I am also not religious, and again, no offense is intended. I'm just writing for fun.)
> 
> (Do not copy to other sites.)

He remembered staring up at the painstakingly carved marble façade in the town square when he was just a child— the angels lifting people to heaven, the sinners stuck in purgatory forever, and those damned souls in the pit of hell being torn asunder. And when he was an adult, he stared at the same façade as he was convinced to join the fourth crusade.

The town crier had climbed up the façade and repeated an order from the Pope— that your sins will be forgiven if you fight for God in the ongoing struggle to regain the holy land of Jerusalem. It was a balm to his soul that for so long had felt frayed and jagged.

And so he trained, and took up arms, and prayed, and fought. The days and weeks and months became one: time was meaningless, and it became apparent that life was meaningless too.

He was sustained for a long time on his faith. It was a carefully held thing, cultivated and kept alive through work and diligence since he was a child. Standing calf-deep in bodies on one of the countless battlefields he had endured, that hard-kept faith left him in the blink of an eye.

 _God is not here,_ he thought, staring down at the gore and filth of his own creation. It was the first clear thought he had had since that day in the town courtyard, hearing what he thought was salvation pouring from the town crier's lips. That pristine thought was horrifying and liberating because he knew it to be true.

 _This is not God’s will. This is Man’s will._ The bodies of his brothers and enemies look the same— hot meat and flesh on the gold dirt. They rot the same. They smell the same. They bleed the same shocking red fluid, and their blood dries the same on his hands.

He makes the mistake of speaking his thoughts in confidence to a few brothers. He finds out quickly that they are not his brothers.

\---

Wide brown eyes peer down at him and he blinks salt and heat from his eyes. His throat has never burned so badly, and once again time is meaningless.

Surely he is dead. Perhaps this is the purgatory depicted on the façade— people stuck forever in an in-between place of eternal undead suffering.

But a tentative, soft hand touches his forehead, the skin cool and clean, and he thinks it must be a new torture—another agony he has brought upon himself for his misdeeds and his questions. But the soft hand has a soft voice, and curly brown hair that glitters in the sunlight.

\---

The seasons change as he settles into life with these strange monks and their secretive relic. He is hesitant to accept kindness, but Diarmuid is relentless and he finds himself doing anything the young Novice asks.

Sitting on the beach where he was found stranded what feels like a lifetime ago, he thinks too much and becomes maudlin. Diarmuid notices— as he always noticed the frequent, crashing mood shifts. Diarmuid takes his hand and presses hesitant lips to his cheek.

“I’m so grateful that God brought us together,” Diarmuid says, unencumbered eyes shining up at him.

 _Perhaps_ , he thinks, _he has ended up where he is supposed to be._


	2. Collapse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid manages to get into some trouble and the Mute is not happy about it.

The Mute basks in the loose, warm feeling settling in his chest. It’s a rare gift— these moments of peace, sitting on the shore and watching Diarmuid walk in the shallow ocean surf with his black robes carefully gathered around his thighs. The two have become inseparable since the Mute arrived at the monastery, and the world-weary crusader finds that Diarmuid’s mere presence is a balm to his destroyed nerves. For as long as he is accepted in this land, he will stay and guard this young man and the monks who have taken him in. Some day his inner self will be exposed and he will be ostracized, but until then…

He lies back— the heated sand seeping warmth through his clothes and the pale, cloudless heavens filling his vision. His eyes drift closed and he remembers the first time he laid on this sand—half dead and delirious with heatstroke. His mind wanders to the memory of the young Novice peering down at him with illuminated curls and warm eyes.

The Mute has changed so much since that time, but on the days when he is not kept busy with repairs and chores for the monastery, his old memories creep in to remind him of who he used to be; before Ireland, before the monastery, before Diarmuid. He frowns, not wanting those thoughts to ruin this moment of calm.

His face is suddenly cooler, and when he opens his eyes Diarmuid is peering down at him again. He cannot help the smile that tugs at his lips: history repeating itself.

“Why were you frowning,” Diarmuid asks, and when he receives only a shrug in response, he falls to his knees by the Mute— hands out to show him what he’s found.

“Look!”

It’s a creature; many legged and stone colored, with a hard shell body and two large front limbs with meaty looking arms the shape of shears. Two tiny little black eyes wiggle on protruding appendages, observing the world from the vantage point of Diarmuid’s hand.

The Mute lets out a strangled grunt and scoots away.

He’s stopped by Diarmuid’s playful laugh.

“No, it’s okay. He’s harmless. Well, mostly,” Diarmuid says, holding the creature carefully from behind, fingers safely away from the dangerous looking pinchers.

The Mute glances up to find Diarmuid’s smiling eyes watching him, and he shifts closer to observe the creature.

The little sea monster seems fairly serene, though his smaller limbs twist in the air for purchase that isn’t there, shears waving in an attempt to threaten the Mute. Diarmuid gently places the monster back on the sand and the creature scuttles away on its sharp limbs, disappearing quickly back into the ocean waves.

“When I was a child Brother Ciarán would let me catch and release them. I think he was secretly just trying to tire me out,” Diarmuid confides. The Mute could see it in his mind’s eye: a little Diarmuid running up and down the beach under Ciarán’s watchful, amused gaze.

The older monk is very protective of Diarmuid, and when the Mute first arrived he was hesitant to let the Mute near Diarmuid without supervision. The Mute understands why the monks were so watchful at first— he himself still questions whether he should be allowed near any of them, let alone an unescorted Diarmuid. He doesn’t know when the demon within will lash out at the innocent beings around him.

But Diarmuid had latched onto the Mute, following him everywhere, and Brother Ciarán quickly changed his tune. The Mute knows his devotion to the Novice is obvious, and Brother Ciarán had made it very clear that there would be terrible consequences if anything foul came to Diarmuid while he was under the Mute’s care.

Dairmuid stands, robes held up to his thighs, and the Mute cannot help his quick glance at the sand sticking to Diarmuid’s bare knees before tearing his traitorous eyes up to meet Diarmuid’s gaze.

“I’m going over to the cliff to see if I can spot any sea weeds we can collect,” Diarmuid says, pointing to a outcropping cliff about a hundred yards away. Even though Diarmuid never needs the Mute’s permission for anything, he seems to want it, so the Mute nods and Diarmuid takes off, golden sand flying up behind him as he runs joyfully across the beach.

The Mute stands, taking a moment to stretch his loosened muscles before moving to follow Diarmuid at a much slower pace.

The warm sand is a pleasant treat. Normally the Irish weather keeps it cold and abrasive, encouraging them to keep their shoes on and keep themselves bundled in thick layers. But today Diarmuid had flung his shoes off as soon as they reached the sand dunes, and the Mute had followed suit with an amused smile.

The sun’s warmth was the type that brought out the animal desire to bask and sleep. They had done it before the year previous; Diarmuid had plopped down and patted the sand next to him, and they had promptly fallen asleep side-by-side and only woke when the sun had shifted low in the sky. It was a good memory, and one that the Mute kept as a treasure to pull out and examine on cold, hard days when everything became too much.

A yelp carries above the sound of crashing waves and he jolts back to the present. He looks up and Diarmuid’s gone. The cliff is bare and flat with no sign of Diarmuid.

The Mute starts sprinting, feet sinking into the loose sand, and when he finally reaches the cliff he sees that the edge has fallen away.

“Help!”

Diarmuid’s pale arms flail in the churning water below, heavy wool robe pulling him down, waves sucking him out to the ocean.

The Mute tears off his shirt and slides down the side of the cliff, rocks scraping his skin as he plunges into the ice water. The shock steals air from his lungs, and he struggles against the waves to reach Diarmuid. He manages to loop an arm around Diarmuid’s chest, pulling him close with his hand fisted in the soaking black wool.

Diarmuid is panicked, and they will both drown if Diarmuid doesn’t stop fighting him. The Mute squeezes Diarmuid close around the chest and grips his jaw hard, forcing eye contact and relying on the strength of his legs to keep both of them afloat against the current.

Diarmuid is terrified, pupils constricted to points, but he locks his arms around the Mute’s broad shoulders, chest heaving in huge breathes. The Mute keeps one arm wrapped around Diarmuid’s ribcage and uses the other in conjunction with his legs to help ease them toward shore. It’s slow, and Diarmuid shakes in his arms, hot breathe shivering out against the Mute’s neck with quiet gasps.

Diarmuid doesn’t let go, even as they walk up onto the shore. The Mute pushes him to sit on the sand and Diarmuid finally lets go of the Mute’s arm, hiding his face in his hands and shaking.

Something shifts in his periphery and he jerks his head up to see several dark-robed figures running down to the beach from the direction of the monastery. The heat of the days is sapped from his blood as he stands next to Diarmuid, dripping salt water into his eyes and trying desperately to keep his thoughts in the present.

As Diarmuid is engulfed in his concerned brothers, the Mute suddenly cannot stand another moment in Diarmuid’s presence. His lungs won’t fill properly and he wants to _hurt_ someone. He turns and walks away, deaf to the yells of the brothers behind him and unsure of his destination until he finds himself standing in front of his clochán.

He goes inside and pauses in the middle of the small hut, hands starting to shiver and jaw clenching hard against the bile burning his throat. He starts pacing back and forth like a caged war horse, filled to the brim with rage and nowhere to put it. His thoughts spin and spin and spin—

\---

Time disappears again, as it does when his anger takes over, and when he comes back to himself the adrenaline crash has sapped his strength and the familiar exhaustion is setting in his muscles. He can already tell he will be sore all over come tomorrow morning. He blinks rapidly and takes note of the shaft of light spilling through the small window— the sun has lowered in the sky, so it must be several hours since the events on the beach.

He becomes peripherally aware of hushed voices speaking outside the clochán every once in a while and the sounds of chickens scratching and chattering to each other. He wonders if he can just stay still for the rest of the night— if he can wait out the demon waiting to claw its way to the surface. As soon as the thought occurs to him, there’s sudden commotion outside.

The Mute would recognize Diarmuid’s gait anywhere, even with the hesitation in his steps as he approaches the Mute’s small home.

Diarmuid’s knock is tentative and despite his anger the Mute will never ignore Diarmuid, so he stands on stiff legs and pushes the door open with numb fingers. Whatever look is on his face makes Diarmuid balk and shift his eyes away for a moment.

“May I come in?”

The Mute nods, trying to build up a wall in his mind so he doesn’t do anything he will regret later.

They sit at the table and the Mute notices Diarmuid is clutching the Mute’s discarded shirt in his hands. He looks down at himself and realizes he’s still bare chested and his pants are still damp with ocean water. He hadn’t noticed.

But Diarmuid has changed into a dry robe, and his hair is fluffy and clean again— all evidence of what had occurred on the beach is gone and the Mute has a panicked moment of wondering if he made it all up in his head.

“What’s wrong,” Diarmuid’s quiet voice implores.

The Mute’s chair falls backward with a bang and he steps away, tangling a hand in his hair and tugging. The anger he had managed to suppress returns in full, heart thudding painfully.

_How can he ask that?_

He has no way to express what’s wrong, so he settles for glaring.

Diarmuid looks down at the surface of the table, fingers dragging along the dips and curves of the wooden surface, and when he speaks it is soft and with great hesitation:

“Brother Ciarán says that I should leave you alone for a while— that you’re probably angry that I was reckless, and scared because I put myself in a dangerous situation. He says that if you were not there—”

Diarmuid swallows audibly, fingers clenching into a divot in the smoothed surface of the table.

“Are you angry with me?”

The question is tight and high, and the Mute feels one of his eyes twitch at Diarmuid’s obvious distress, but he nods. Diarmuid flinches and his eyes fill with water, but the Mute will not lie to him. Diarmuid has to know— he has to take better care of himself.

“Are you going to leave,” Diarmuid asks, voice trembling.

Blindsided by the question, the Mute cuts his hand through the air, “ _no_ ,” and Diarmuid’s shoulders drop a bit from where they had climbed up towards his ears.

He picks up his discarded chair and forces himself to be gentle, placing it upright and sitting down. He puts his face in his hands, bracing his elbows on his spread knees. How can he get this across to Diarmuid? Diarmuid could have drowned. He could have hit his head in the fall. He could have died, easily, and all because the Mute wasn’t paying attention.

Diarmuid stands, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves, and approaches the Mute, stopping a couple feet away. The Mute looks up at him and Diarmuid pauses with a hand out, as though he were going to touch the Mute but thought better of it at the last moment. His hesitation cracks the Mute’s heart open— Diarmuid has never hesitated to touch him, and seeing him do so now is horrible.

“May I hug you?”

The hot anger that’s sustained him since the beach leaves the Mute abruptly and he feels exhausted down to his bones.

He nods and is engulfed in Diarmuid’s warm scent as he wraps his arms tight around the Mute’s broad shoulders, climbing into his lap and hiding his face under the hinge of the Mute’s jaw. The Mute quickly wraps his arms around Diarmuid’s back, sighing at the feeling of Diarmuid safe and alive in his arms.

“I’m sorry,” Diarmuid confesses, tears clogging his voice. “I’m sorry, I promise I’ll be more careful. Please, please don’t be angry with me anymore—“

The Mute feels a moan tug through his clenched teeth, squeezing Diarmuid’s smaller body against his. He lets Diarmuid cry into his neck, running his hands up and down Diarmuid’s back to try and soothe him. When it becomes clear that Diarmuid isn’t going to calm down any time soon, he lifts Diarmuid with tired arms and carries him to the bed, laying so they face each other on the soft mattress. He feels selfish for his anger suddenly, forgetting that Diarmuid has been through something horrible and terrifying, and now has to deal with the Mute’s anger on top of nearly drowning.

He vows to make up for it in the coming weeks, continuing to run a hand along Diarmuid’s side until he settles enough to stop crying.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, scrubbing a hand across his eyes. The Mute shakes his head, turning sheepish eyes to him in apology for his own temper. Diarmuid smiles, and though it’s tear stained, it’s still the best thing the Mute has seen today.

The Mute taps his fingers under Diarmuid’s chin and furrows his brow, and as always Diarmuid understands what he cannot say.

“I’m okay, thanks to you,” he says, curling his arms around himself.

“I’ll be more careful, I promise,” Diarmuid says, eyes earnest in the dim evening light. The Mute nods, running a thumb across the silk skin under Diarmuid’s eye under the guise of wiping a tear away. The Mute cannot explain how he hates that he was reminded of Diarmuid’s mortality and his own inadequacies. He hates that he won’t always be here to protect Diarmuid.

“May I stay here tonight,” Diarmuid asks, hushed as though he expects to be rejected. The Mute responds by pulling the bundle of blankets he keeps on the bed over both of them, feeling his heart settle as Diarmuid curls against him and lets out a relieved sigh.

He will protect Diarmuid for as long as he can, even if he has to protect the Novice from his own anger. Diarmuid falls asleep quickly, but the Mute lays awake long into the night, solidifying his new vow deep in his heart.


	3. gem colored flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mute is feeling a bit rattled after Diarmuid's averted drowning, and he's willing to indulge in Diarmuid's whims...
> 
> [For CamelotQueen (based on a discord discussion)]

The Mute is much more vigilant over the next several days. The monks have taken notice of his jumpy behavior, but he can’t find it in him to care whether or not they judge him. The idea of losing Diarmuid has shifted something vital within him, and he finds he cannot bear the thought of not having the Novice around. He'll do whatever he has to to keep the young man safe.

Brother Ciarán approaches Diarmuid around noon on the third day after the averted drowning and tells him to take the Mute and go into the forested area near the monastery. There are three specific herbs they’re running low on, and it’s better to stock up now than wait until the weather turns.

“Take our laybrother with you,” Brother Ciarán says to Diarmuid, shooting a knowing glance to the Mute over Diarmuid's shoulder. The Mute would blush at being so transparent in his anxieties, but he senses that Brother Ciarán is also feeling fragile regarding Diarmuid’s safety, so the Mute just nods at the monk, understanding passing between them.

\---

The herbs are easily found along the small stream that weaves through the forest and out to sea. Diarmuid is very good as spotting the different plant varieties in the shifting forest light, stopping every once in a while to explain various herbal properties to the Mute. When his basket is filled to the brim with herbs, the Mute takes it from him and they meander along the stream, enjoying the warm breeze shifting through the trees.

“Ooh!”

Diarmuid’s sudden exclamation startles the Mute and he looks around frantically, stepping in front of the Novice to hide him.

“No,” Diarmuid says, hand touching the Mute's arm, laughing, “sorry, it’s just, look—“

The Mute’s gaze follows where Diarmuid is pointing and sees a large patch of small petaled, bright blue flowers. They glow and shimmer in the forest light, captivating. He tilts his head, looking back at the Novice.

Diarmuid grips his hand and pulls him along to stand at the edge of the floral patch.

“Sit,” Diarmuid asks, tugging at his sleeve and peering up at him with eager eyes.

The Mute sighs and sits cross legged on the soft forest floor, wondering what Diarmuid has in mind. Diarmuid kneels behind him, knees slotting along his hips. The Mute takes several long, slow breaths, deep into his belly the way Brother Ciarán taught him when he first arrived at the monastery. He reminds himself, carefully, that it’s Diarmuid behind him, and he’s safe in Ireland, with gentle men, who would never raise a hand against him.

“May I braid your hair,” Diarmuid asks, startling the Mute out of his spinning thoughts.

He tilts his head in acquiescence, and is rewarded with the feeling of Diarmuid’s fingers running through his hair. He immediately feels the tension that’s knotted in his shoulders over the past several days dissipate. Shivers run down his spine as blood flows through the relaxed muscles.

Diarmuid starts talking, and the Mute half listens, distracted by the feel of warm, careful fingers playing with his hair. He can’t remember the last time someone groomed him like this, touching his hair so carefully, twisting the strands together. The tenderness makes a lump well in his throat and his eyes burn, but squeezes his eyes closed and focuses on the here and now. He hears the snap of a stem breaking near his hip, and something foreign being weaved into the braids— _oh_.

Well, if Diarmuid wants to braid flowers into his hair, that’s fine with him. As long as he has Diarmuid’s attention, he will not complain. And Diarmuid seems so happy, chattering and playing with his hair and the tiny blue flowers.

The sun has shifted far in the sky by the time Diarmuid pats his shoulders and announces that he’s done. The Mute turns to face Diarmuid and the Novice smiles broadly, tucking some free strands back behind his ears.

“You looks _pretty_!”

The Mute does blush at that, feeling heat flood his cheeks. He blinks rapidly, dumbstruck. _Pretty_. Never in his life has he been called “pretty,” but Diarmuid says it with such earnest intensity that the Mute doesn’t deny it, just gives him a crooked smile and stands, grabbing the basket and gesturing towards home. They don’t want to get caught out in the forest when the sun goes down.

“Yes, we should head back now. I can’t wait for Brother Ciarán to see—“

The Mute grimaces, following behind Diarmuid's joyful, bouncing gait. He can already see the older monk’s reaction in his mind’s eye: he’ll praise Diarmuid for his craftsmanship, but shoot a teasing look at the Mute when Diarmuid cannot see.

\---

“Look, we found flowers!”

Diarmuid joyful call makes all the monks look up from their tasks and swivel to see what Diarmuid is talking about. The Mute knows he looks ridiculous…a giant, hulking, bearded man— scars everywhere— with his hair braided back away from his face and many tiny, gem-colored flowers twisted into the dark strands.

The Mute looms behind Diarmuid’s shoulder with his arms crossed, glaring at the monks and willing any of them to say something that would make Diarmuid feel bad. But they all just smile indulgently (some more teasing than others) and say something complimentary about his braiding skills.

“Well done, Diarmuid,” Brother Ciarán says, appearing from the doorway of his clochán. The Mute’s prediction was right: the older monk’s eyes dance with teasing glee when they meet the Mute’s gaze, but his words to Diarmuid are kind and encouraging.

“Doesn’t he look pretty?”

The Mute clenches his jaw hard, feeling his left eye twitch.

“Yes,” Brother Ciarán says, lips pulling up at the corners. “Very pretty. Now hurry along and get those herbs inside and hanging. We don’t want them to wilt out here.”

Diarmuid disappears into the herbalist’s clochán and Brother Ciarán turns to him.

“You know, it is a good look on you, lay brother.”

The Mute carefully reaches up, pulls a single flower out of his hair, and throws it at Brother Ciarán, who laughs and darts away.

The things he puts up with for Diarmuid...

He wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
